


Out Of My Mind

by holmesmoriart



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Broken!Jim, Drug Use, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 19:45:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holmesmoriart/pseuds/holmesmoriart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheriarty AU, Jim tries to cope with Sherlock's suicide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out Of My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> my first fic!

The bedroom of James Moriarty lay in ruins.

Usually-immaculate suits were strewn across the floor, crumpled and untidy-looking; small fragments of phone could be seen scattered- the result of one of his frequent fits of blinding rage, and vacant cans and used syringes littered the small areas of carpet that weren’t occupied by clutter. At first glance, the room seemed to be a victim of some sort of raid. The only indication that the apartment hadn’t recently been ransacked by violent thieves was the sleeping body of the consulting criminal. 

Even in slumber, his body wasn’t at rest.  
And neither was his mind.

He woke on creased sheets from a disturbed sleep, his chest heaving and heart pumping, pupils blown wide in fear. It took him twenty minutes to regain control of his breathing. He didn’t even cry out anymore; the nightmares had become just another part of his pitiful existence. The stench of his own unwashed person was the only motivation he had to leave the safety of the bed. He dragged his aching body to the bathroom and slowly, carefully, undressed.

He used to enjoy the warmth, the protection, of the shower; it was a place for cleanliness and nothing else, a place where he didn’t think. He didn’t want to think.

As he closed the shower curtains around himself, he gave up trying to push his emotions to the back of his mind. He’d grown tired of trying to mask his pain. He let the memories flood back as the torrent of water washed over him, wincing at his own desolation, at the feelings he was experiencing. Sentiment, he used to think, was something he would always be separate from, he thought it was a sign of being a lesser man. He was right, of course, but only on the second point.  
He just simply stopped caring.  
An abrupt, almost-hysterical giggle escaped from his lips as his legs buckled, his back sliding down the glass until he sat, his posture resembling a small, broken child. And then the flashbacks started.

The water spiralling down the drain turned crimson, and Jim was standing over Sherlock’s writhing body inside the Bakers Street flat. There was a clear bullet wound in the centre of his head, not quite concealed by the mop of chocolate curls. The detective’s shaking fist clasped a small pistol. Sherlock’s whole expression remained calm, emotionless, eyes distant as his body shuddered, convulsing. He almost appeared bored throughout his final moments of suffering. Jim’s arms were wrapped around the dying man’s torso, tears streaming down his face, his usual steel demeanour crumbling as his- he admitted it- only love perished in his hold.  
He remembered falling onto the blood-soaked tiles on which he stood on, the breath knocked out of his body. He remembered the needles, and the small packets of white powder that filled Sherlock’s pockets. He remembered John returning to 221B. Jim shot the army doctor upon sight. He didn’t know if he had killed him. He didn’t care, either.  
Sherlock and Jim had spent the night together, before it had all happened, one of the many times that they’d taken advantage of John’s frequent absence on his trips working away. They’d lain, encased in each other’s arms, sweating and panting, bodies and minds numb from the substances they’d injected. The time they spent together, often in silence, was the best thing that’d happened to him. Their minds just clicked, they were the same. They understood eachother, even if they didn’t openly discuss their feelings.

His mind aching, he abandoned the shower, not bothering to turn off the water. He was finished. There was nothing more he could do. There was nothing left to sate his boredom, there was nothing he could do to fill the gaping hole in his chest, there was nothing he could do to bring Sherlock back. It was laughable, really. He’d spent his entire life striving to be different, when really, in the end, he was the same as every single pathetic human in existence. 

It was the drugs, in the end, that killed Jim. 

He’d lived as a criminal intellect. A genius, as he was often called by his accomplices. A brick wall; uncaring, unbreakable.

He died a broken little boy.


End file.
